


There's Something About Brother Francis

by Lyowyn



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mistaken Identity, Mistaken for Being in a Relationship, Suggested Brother Francis/Nanny Ashteroth, these two idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 06:18:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19388239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyowyn/pseuds/Lyowyn
Summary: Crowley does not recognize Aziraphale when he starts working for the Dowlings.Aziraphale decides to have a bit of fun.





	There's Something About Brother Francis

Crowley had been a member of the Dowling household for three days when the gardener arrived.

Warlock was every bit as much of a terror as he might have expected from the son of Satan-- spoiled, ill-mannered, and destructive.

He was almost relieved when Aziraphale's agent turned up to try to give the boy a good influence. Having a break from the little brat while the boy played in the garden, torturing slugs and ants with a magnifying glass, was a welcome bonus.

Crowley made himself a gin and tonic and went out to one of the garden benches with his parasol to observe his opposition. He'd been making a show of influencing the Antichrist to acts of evil, just so the head office wouldn't find anything amiss, but he planned to give the gardener every opportunity to try to mellow Warlock. Not only might it prevent him from bringing about Armageddon, but it might make the job of looking after the little sod easier.

Crowley considered the gardener, as the old codger explained that burning God's creatures wasn't a very nice thing to do, expounded about the virtues of love for all living things, and confiscated the magnifying lens. He really was the most repulsive looking man that Crowley had ever seen-- those jowls with the ridiculous muttonchops, and _the teeth_. Crowley didn't necessarily mind an overbite. Freddie had done the most wonderful things with his, after all, but unless you could manage five octaves, it might be time to see an orthodontist. And those eyebrows… like two caterpillars mating.

_Where did Aziraphale find these people?_

The man straightened up from where he'd been kneeling in the dirt next to Warlock and brushed off the knees of his rough-spun trousers.

 _Looks like a character from a children's book_ , Crowley thought disparagingly, with no sense of the inherent irony.

The gardener seemed to notice him then, so Crowley raised his glass in an acknowledging salute. He smiled a big toothy grin back, and Crowley thought that if he was so inclined, he could single-handedly put the black-market ivory trade out of business.

-*-

Aziraphale could hardly believe his eyes the first time that he saw Crowley in his Mary Poppins getup. He had to pretend to blow his nose to hide his smile in his handkerchief.

It was just _so_ like the demon to unapologetically don a frock and, in a gust of wind and flying alternative applicants, present himself on the Dowling's doorstep.

Crowley could have used his demonic powers to actually make himself a woman, or at least make the disguise a bit more believable. He hadn't even bothered to hide his adam's apple or the stubble on his jaw. He really thought that no one would notice, and the Dowlings were obviously too worried about the possible discrimination lawsuits and public relations nightmare associated with _not_ hiring a transvestite nanny for their son, that they'd given him a job on the spot.

Aziraphale was quite proud of his own disguise. He hadn't used his powers either, of course; it was all prosthetics and a lot of makeup. He'd taken an interest some years ago, when he'd seen a Charlie Chaplin film, and it was such great fun.

At first, he hadn't thought that even Crowley had recognized him, but he'd been watching the other day in the garden, and he'd given Aziraphale a knowing look. Pity that, it might have been entertaining to keep him going a bit longer.

-*-

Since they had joined forces in their attempt to postpone Armageddon, they had made a weekly tradition of dining at The Ritz on Saturday afternoons. 

Aziraphale was waiting for Crowley already when he pulled up at speed with a screeching of brakes from the Bentley, tossed the keys at the valet with a look over the rims of his sunglasses that clearly conveyed the amount of pain this mortal parking slave would be in if Crowley found a single scratch upon the car's return, and sauntered over to Aziraphale with a swagger that he claimed Mick Jagger had stolen from _him_.

Aziraphale held the door open for him, and they bypassed any tedious mucking about with hostesses, and menus, and wait staff, as they made their way to their usual table and found everything ready for them. They sat, and the sommelier appeared instantly to pour wine into their glasses.

"I had a pop around the Dowling Estate, just to see how things were getting on," Crowley said. "That's quite an interesting chap you've found."

Aziraphale smiled. "Your nanny is quite the… looker, as well."

"Can't say the same about your gardener. Where did you find _him_? Living with American hill folk, playing a banjo?"

Aziraphale frowned, not at all getting the reference.

"Not sure if he's smuggling a piano in his mouth, or if his father is just Mr. Ed."

That reference Aziraphale did understand. Talking horses were much more his speed than hillbilly rape and murder in the Ozarks.

"Well, your _nanny_ isn't fooling anyone, I can tell you," he replied tersely.

Crowley's eyes narrowed. "You _saw_ me?"

"You'd be hard to miss. I mean, _really_ Crowley, you might have managed a closer shave at least, and that shade of lipstick isn’t doing you any favors." 

Crowley pushed his sunglasses up a bit. "Well, it's all well and good for you to send your agent in to act on your behalf, but if I don't go myself, I run the risk of whoever I send actually being competent."

Aziraphale choked. So, Crowley really hadn’t recognized him then.

"You alright, angel?"

"Yes, fine. Fine." He waved Crowley off, pretending to stifle his cough in his napkin to hide his smile.

"Yeah, well, I can tell you, that Warlock is a right little brat. You can definitely see the satanic influences at work. Do you know, he actually put a mousetrap on my chair yesterday? Your man is going to have his work cut out for him with that one. Are you sure he's up to it?"

"Oh, yes," Aziraphale said, hardly able to contain himself. "He's a good man; I trust him like, well, like I trust myself. And he's quite looking forward to… thwarting your wiles."

"Right," Crowley gave him a suspicious look, easily hidden by his sunglasses. The angel was clearly up to something.

-*-

"You know, I think Brother Francis has his eye on you," Mrs. Dowling said.

"Who?" Crowley asked.

They were out on the veranda drinking cosmopolitans. When Crowley had arrived at the Dowling Estate, Harriet Dowling had decided three things. The first was that Nanny Ashtoreth was quite obviously a man. The second was that it was very boring being the American Cultural Ambassador's wife. And, the third was that her life would be so much more interesting if she had a sassy, gay, best friend—or a trans one, or whatever labels he (or she) happened to prefer. Harriet hadn’t found a polite way to ask yet. She had set out to present herself as the rich, sarcastic housewife in the better class of comedy sitcoms, so as to better win his friendship-- thus the invitation to imbibe low calorie alcohol in the middle of the afternoon, while Warlock played once more in the garden.

"Brother Francis, the new gardener," Mrs. Dowling explained.

"He’s been watching me?" Crowley asked.

"Oh, I don't think he _knows_ ," Harriet said with a knowing smile. "You could give him quite the shock if you wanted to.” She tittered.

“Oh, he knows,” Crowley said, mostly to himself, as he looked out over the garden, watching Brother Francis.

Harriet raised an eyebrow. “Do you really think so?”

“He’s quite aware of exactly who I am,” Crowley muttered.

“Right,” Harriet bit her lip in delight at this new bit of gossip. “ _Well_ , I suppose an old wreck like him, he sees a young, sophisticated woman, and he might be willing to overlook a few things if he thinks he has a chance.”

Crowley looked away from the garden and over at Harriet sharply. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, do you think he’ll muster up the courage to make a pass? I mean… _obviously_ you can do better,” she gestured up and down at Crowley’s figure. “I’d just die for your hair.”

Crowley fluffed his neatly pinned waves, but then what she was saying sunk in, and his mouth fell just slightly open. “Uh… You think he’s interested in me romantically?”

“Haven’t you been listening, Ash? It’s been the talk of the whole house for days now. He’s always checking you out. Poor man has quite the crush.”

And then Aziraphale’s words and obvious delight at Crowley’s expense during their lunch last weekend suddenly made a lot more sense. _Looking forward to thwarting his wiles, indeed_. The angel knew that his little garden troll was harboring feelings for the nanny. That’s why he’d been so bloody smug. All his little insinuations about _getting to know the gardener a lot better,_ and _working in close quarters_. Aziraphale must have been just tickled at his expense.

Crowley scowled. “He can go ahead and just try to make an advance; I’ll show him the knob end of my umbrella.

Crowley was thinking of beating off lecherous old men with his quite stylish parasol, while Harriet was imagining, well… something else entirely.

She squealed and covered her face. “Oh, I’ve got an image! That’s awful. I _can’t_ even.”

 _American’s are very strange_ , Crowley thought as he sipped his cosmo.

-*-

Friday night, Crowley had told Warlock a story about a three-headed beast consuming a whole village of farmers. He thought that he’d made the farm folk very sympathetic, but Warlock just wanted all the gruesome details of how they had been crunched between the monsters drooling jaws and torn to shreds with its razor-sharp claws. Crowley had eventually given up, and just sung the little sadist one of the traditional Satanist lullabies and called it a night.

He was just unpinning his hair when there was a knock on his door. He glanced in his vanity mirror, adjusted his lipstick, and went to answer it. He was expecting Harriet with another invitation to drink wine and complain about men (she’d been particularly clingy since Mr. Dowling had been away on a cultural exchange with a Japanese prostitute,) but when he opened the door, it was the gardener.

Brother Francis had also thought to bring wine. He held up a bottle and waggled his fornicating caterpillars at Crowley.

“Can I help you?” Crowley asked in a stern tone—full of feminine displeasure at the appearance of this unwanted guest.

“I was hoping that I migh’ _tempt_ you with a glass or two, Nanny Ashtoreth,” Brother Francis said. “It’s a particularly fine vintage, if you’d take the word of a poor fellow like me. Seems a shame not to share it on such a fine night as this.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow, but glanced at the label. It _was_ actually a nice bottle, and after dealing with the brat all day, Crowley could use a glass or two. So, he figured _what the hell, give the old troll a thrill_. If he got too forward, Crowley still had his umbrella.

“Yes, I suppose I could join you for a drink,” he said, and stepped out of his room.

The old coot actually had the nerve to offer his arm, and Crowley couldn’t find a polite way not to take it, so there he found himself walking arm-in-arm out to the garden with Brother Francis.

“That’s a lovely frock that you have on tonight, Nanny Ashtoreth,” Francis said. “It really suits you.”

“Yes, thank you,” Crowley said in a clipped tone.

“Here we are,” Brother Francis said, depositing the wine and glasses on a patio table at the edge of the garden. “Let me just get your chair for you. A delicate young thing such as yerself deserves to be treated like a lady.”

Crowley tapped his foot while Francis made a great show of pulling one of the chairs out for him, ending with a low bow.

“I hear young Warlock has been giving you a bi’ of trouble,” he said as he poured the wine. “He really is a very rambunctious child, so full of life and spirit.”

“Quite,” Crowley agreed. He took his glass and drank deeply. It really was a fine vintage, nearly worth Brother Francis’ clumsy overtures.

“I heard that there was a mighty storm the day that you were taken on. I’m glad to see that you were unharmed.”

Crowley tipped his glasses down to give the man a patronizing look from yellow, reptilian eyes. “Do you know who I am?”

“Oh, yes indeed,” the man said. “The question is, do you know who I am?”

Crowley pushed his glasses back up. “I know who you work for.”

“Oh, the Lord works in mysterious ways,” Brother Francis agreed. “Why, sometimes the sorts of situations that you find yourself in just have to be proof that God has a sense of humor.”

“Or that Lucifer takes joy at the expense of others,” Crowley said—thinking of what a laugh Hastur and Ligur would have if they could see him now.

“Oh, there’s a lot of that going around,” Brother Francis agreed. “Care for a top up?” he asked, and filled Crowley’s glass before he could even answer.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” Crowley asked. “I would think that a man of your supposed moral standing would know better than to try to take advantage of a young woman.”

“Oh, surely that isn’t my intent,” Brother Francis said, “not at all, _my dear_.”

“You could have fooled me,” Crowley said. “I know all about your longing stares from across the garden, and you should know that I’m not at all on the market.”

This outright refusal at least seemed to give the man pause. “I think perhaps you’ve misinterpreted my intentions. I only wanted to show you what close friends we might be if you saw past this shabby exterior.”

“I don’t think that I have any interest in being that sort of _friends_. I thank you for the wine, but I really must be headed to bed now. Warlock will be up early tomorrow, and I need my rest.” Crowley rose from the table before the awful man could make a big deal out of pulling out his chair for him.

“No rest for the wicked.”

“I’m afraid that I need my beauty sleep.” Crowley gave him a look up and down. “Perhaps you should try it once in a while.”

-*-

It had been two weeks now since Crowley had drunk his wine and scarpered off, and he still hadn’t recognized Aziraphale. At first, he had been delighted that he’d managed to fool Crowley so completely, but now he was starting to get bored with the joke. He thought that he’d rather just have Crowley’s companionship, and he considered dropping the fake voice and just telling him, but it would be so much funnier if he could watch Crowley figure it out on his own.

The problem was that despite all his best efforts, he couldn’t get Crowley to spend more than a moment alone with him.

It was nearly time for him to fetch Warlock in for lunch now though, and Aziraphale primed himself for another round.

“Why, good afternoon, Nanny Ashteroth.”

“Good afternoon, Brother Francis. Is Warlock ready for his lunch?”

“Oh, yes indeed. I do enjoy a spot of lunch myself on occasion. Perhaps you’d like to join me sometime? This Saturday afternoon at The Ritz?”

Crowley gave him a glowering look. “I have a prior engagement.”

Aziraphale was sure that Crowley realized that he was messing with him at that point, but when Saturday afternoon rolled around, all Crowley could talk about at lunch was how bothersome Aziraphale’s agent was, and whether or not he couldn’t find a replacement.

-*-

“You really need to replace that gardener,” Crowley complained over cosmos with Harriet that Monday afternoon. “The man simply won’t take no for an answer. I’m not sure that’s the kind of influence you want for your son.”

“Tell me _all_ about it,” Harriet demanded.

“Yesterday he offered to show me his _magic wand_.”

Harriet’s hand flew to her mouth. “He didn’t?”

“Oh yes, and I can’t walk past him without him complimenting me on my dress, or saying what a lovely shade of lipstick I’m wearing, and he’s mentioned dining together and what _close friends_ we could be a dozen times at least, despite the fact that I’ve continually told him that I’m not interested.”

“He _is_ persistent,” Harriet said. “He’s just so good with the roses; I’d hate to have to let him go.”

Crowley waved a hand at her. “Don’t worry. I’ll handle it.”

-*-

There was quite a nice little cottage set aside for the gardener on the Dowling estate. It hadn’t been there before Brother Francis started working for the family, but no one had seemed to notice when the building just appeared one day.

Aziraphale was about to tuck in to a nice pot roast dinner when there was a knock on the door. He set his napkin down to answer it, and Crowley was standing on his stoop, looking irritated.

 _So this is it_ , Aziraphale thought. _He’s finally figured it out_.

“Well, good evening, Nanny Ashteroth,” he said. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Listen here, you old lecher,” Crowley said, surging into the cabin and grabbing Aziraphale by the front of his shirt. He’d dropped his feminine voice, and was speaking in his normal tone. “I’ve had enough. I don’t want to see your magic wand, I don’t want to go to dinner with you, and I’m not at all interested in any kind of _special friendship_.”

Aziraphale was so shocked by this sudden assault that he dropped character entirely. “Well, there’s no need to be so forceful about it.”

Crowley dropped him and took a step back.

And, _there it was_. The look of complete and utter disbelief writ large all over Crowley’s face was priceless.

“Aziraphale?” he asked. He pulled his sunglasses off and narrowed his eyes at him. “Is that you, Angel?”

Aziraphale grinned. “I thought you’d never ask.”

“What… But, I… What’re you playing?”

“Well, to be honest, I thought you’d catch on a lot sooner.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes again, and reached a finger out to prod at Aziraphale’s prosthetics. “What’re you…? But, _why_?”

Aziraphale grinned a mouth full of huge, crooked teeth and adopted his Brother Francis voice. “Why, Nanny Ashteroth, I have no idea what you mean. I’m just a simple gardener.”

“You look ridiculous.”

Aziraphale dropped the character again and frowned. “So says Satanic Mary Poppins.”

“So all that business about _being friends_ , that was just you trying to tip me off?” Crowley was still staring at him with a strange look on his face—trying to see his Aziraphale under the prosthetic.

“Obviously.”

“Make it go away,” Crowley said.

“What?”

Crowley waved a hand at his face. “All of _that_. I can’t even look at you with that on.”

“Oh, but it takes such a long time to put it right again.”

“Nothing about _that_ is _right_.”

“Spoilsport,” Aziraphale accused, but he snapped his fingers and banished his disguise. “Happy now? Say you’ll stay for dinner at least. It’s been torture keeping up this act. I’ve _missed_ you.”

“Yeah, all right. Do you have any more of that wine?” Crowley flopped into one of the chairs at the table.

-*-

“What are you looking at, Harriet?” Thaddeus Dowling asked. “Come to bed.”

Harriet stayed in her position, holding the bedroom curtains aside just enough to peer out the window. “This is the third night in a row.”

“The third night of what?”

“Nanny Ashteroth going over to the gardener’s cottage.”

Thaddeus frowned. “What for?”

Harriet shot him a look. “ _You know_.”

“I… _ugh_.” He made a disgusted face. “That’s disgusting. I don’t need to know that.”

“Oh,” Harriet said, suddenly defensive. “What’s so disgusting about it?”

“Well, they’re of course free to do… whatever they like, in the privacy of… our guest cottage.” He beetled his brows together, caught between political correctness and the image of the two people in question doing… whatever it was that two consenting adults might do… in the privacy of his guest cottage. “Oh, _I don’t know_ , Harriet. They’re both so peculiar. I don’t want to think about it. Come to bed.”

Harriet sniffed disdainfully. “I don’t think I will. I’m going to sleep downstairs.”

“What? _Why_? What did I do?” he called after her retreating back.

 _Great_ , Thaddeus thought. _Somehow that ugly-ass gardener is getting lucky, while I spend the night alone._ He wanted to go back to Japan.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments of all shapes, sizes, and varieties are very much appreciated. I love to hear from you.
> 
> If you liked this, I have a few other Good Omens fics. You can find them on my profile page.
> 
> Blanket permission is granted for all translation, podfic, and fanart- as always. So, if that's something you're interested in, feel free. My playground is your playground.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


End file.
